


Softly Hewn

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Series: A Love for the Ages [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: To create something is an act of faith, of devotion. All things are created for the Maker, yes, but there is also devotion to the thing itself.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Sebastian Vael
Series: A Love for the Ages [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703947
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Softly Hewn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/gifts).



> The vaguest of Pygmalion and Galatea inspirations, so vague that I can't quite bring myself to tag it, but now that you know, perhaps you'll see it there.

Sweat collects at the nape of his neck forming a drop big enough to give in to gravity and roll down his back. Cullen shivers in the warm room, shifting the loose fabric of his shirt on his shoulder. It would be less sweltering if he could open a window, or perhaps a door to let in the breeze, but he dares not.

“You don’t mind the heat at all, do you?” He reaches out with a soft cloth and brushes dust from an impossibly pale and smooth cheek. There is no answer in the quiet of the room, but he is not expecting one.

The piece of marble was technically confiscated, but none of the other Templars had the first idea what to do with it when they took it from the mage’s hideout. Cullen hadn’t expected Meredith to agree when he asked if he would be allowed to have it. She’d look almost amused when she nodded and waved her hand for him to leave her office.

That was months ago, and now Cullen stands before a nearly completed sculpture. He learned right away that it was folly to think that chipping stone and whittling wood could be similar at all. Shattered pieces of granite and basalt lie in a box in one corner, victims of his informal education into the intricacies of coaxing a form from rock.

He had no idea what he wanted to sculpt when he started. In Honnleath, he carved what he could see: Trees, birds, other animals. There were so few of these things in Kirkwall, and so he spent hours staring at the uneven chunk of stone, willing it to speak to him and unveil anything.

_ “This is one of my favorites.” A voice warm and plush wraps itself around his head like a cloud of perfume as the priest moves to stand beside him. “To think that such softness and detail can be found in stone.” He lifts a hand, never touching the statue of Andraste, but moving parallel to her curves and contours. Something twists in Cullen’s gut as he watches, an image of a golden brown hand caressing pale skin skipping across his mind like a stone on a pond. _

_ Cullen nodded, fighting to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Her gown is like… water on her… I don’t know how that’s done.” He holds up his hands to demonstrate and they land at a most unfortunate height, even if the fabric there is draped so delicately as to illustrate his point. Sebastian chuckles beside him, low enough that it doesn’t echo to attract any more attention as Cullen pulls his hands back, dropping his head to try to hide the flush that races over his skin. _

_ “The Maker’s Bride is a beautiful woman, and the sculptor captured her in a moment of true worship.” _

_ “Released her.” Cullen’s breath catches when he realizes he’s corrected Sebastian, but when he lifts his head to look, he finds that he’s being watched with amusement, curiosity sparkling in brilliant blue eyes. “There is a sculpture inside every stone, and when it’s created, it’s not capturing something, it’s setting it free.” _

_ Sebastian nods, his gaze fixed on Cullen even as he turns to regard the statue anew. One corner of his mouth curves up, with lips that match the richness of the voice that comes from them. _

_ “I’m-- I’m trying to learn myself,” Cullen offers, desperate to explain how he could claim to know more about a statue of Andraste than a dedicated priest. “How to sculpt, to bring stone to life like this.” _

_ The smile widens and Sebastian nods, glancing at the statue before meeting Cullen’s eyes again. “Perhaps some day we will have the privilege of finding out what your hands can set free, Knight-Captain.” His gaze flicks down to Cullen’s hands where they’re clasped in front of him, and then Sebastian is moving away, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the Chantry, and Cullen holds his breath until he can no longer hear it. _

It was hardly their first meeting; the Chantry was part of most patrols, and even if Cullen Rutherford’s rank meant no patrols for himself, he still made his way there regularly. Andraste and the Maker are an important part of his life, and his faith carried him through the darkest parts of his early years as a Templar. In Kirkwall he clings to it like driftwood in a storm. The Knight-Commander has the same blonde locks and bears a crown so similar as to border on blasphemy, acting with all of the rage and righteous justice of a god with little of the compassion or forgiveness that Cullen has so often sought in the Chant. Kirkwall is always on edge, and the Templars are always on duty, but in the Chantry here he’s found a safe harbor and calm waters. 

It was Sebastian who approached him first, and Cullen learned quickly that the priest had a gift for seeking out lost souls to soothe and guide, lightening their loads and banishing darkness often simply by listening, letting them speak and drawing their problems to the surface so that he could sympathize and advise. It was awe-inspiring to witness with others, but almost painful when that comforting voice and piercing gaze that seemed to know him across lifetimes was turned on Cullen himself. He was not used to that sort of patient attention, and made excuses to return to the Gallows time and again, unable to bring himself to open up to the priest, even as he knew that he would be safe with him.

He retreated to the room he’d commandeered as his workspace, at first spending hours just staring at the stone, willing it to tell him the secret of what was locked inside. His first attempts with the chisel were halting, hesitant, afraid to push too far and ruin what lay within.

_ “We are never complete in the Maker’s eyes. He wants always for us to continue to grow and learn, and in this way we move closer to His Light.” _

The words echoed in Cullen’s head when he took up his tools with confidence, perhaps even inspiration. Now, when he stares at the stone, it stares back, and he sees the form within.

_ “It is not always for us to understand the trials the Maker sets before us. It is not blasphemy to be angry over the circumstances, but do not hold onto that anger in wait for answers from the Maker. It is up to us ourselves to understand His purpose, and to free ourselves from our anger that way.” _

Cullen is not patient. Having the hands of an amateur and the inspiration of a master is frustrating. He sees the face within the stone and wants to bring it out, but some days there is so much resistance. The lyrium helps when he trembles, but not always; sometimes he shivers at the thought of never being able to match what he envisions, that he is too poor in skill and talent to do justice to the beauty he wishes to unveil.

_ “To create something is an act of faith, of devotion. All things are created for the Maker, yes, but there is also devotion to the thing itself. When I bake bread in the morning, it is for the glory of the Maker, but also because I want to make good bread that I can share with others.” _

There is devotion to the thing itself. Cullen has long since accepted his devotion to the face he sees before him, even if all his time and adoration is given to cold unmoving stone rather than soft and living flesh. The eyes of his stone Sebastian do not stare into his soul with the same accuracy, and for that he is often grateful. He can tell this pale facsimile of time spent with its inspiration, of the way he calms a troubled mind, or sets fire to the skin with a touch of his hand. They are not the same, but Cullen cannot help but want the bust to know of the real Sebastian, as if stories and rambling descriptions can form stone as much as his hands and tools.

He slides a scrap of sandpaper down the regal nose, folding it into his palm as he brushes away dust from full lips with his bare fingers. This is the face of a prince, with high cheekbones and hair swept away from his face, small curls at the back of his neck. His mouth is set in the slightest of smiles and his eyes are soft, all of Cullen’s patience and will going into making them look just as they do when leading prayers or helping others, small lines at the corners and the gentle arch of the brows just as he recalls them. Here, alone in the quiet dark of the room, he can trace these features with his hands as much as he wishes, following the shell of an ear or the line of his jaw, drinking in Sebastian’s beauty as seldom-spoken line of scripture come to him unbidden.  _ His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers. His lips like lilies; his mouth is most sweet. He is altogether lovely. _

The door creaks open behind him and Cullen freezes, shame and fear bolting him to the spot, one hand cupping the statue’s cheek. He doesn’t need to turn to look to identify the voice behind the gasp, little more than an inhale. Within his chest, his heart shatters into slivers to match the scraps of stone in the box, held together only by his lungs that refuse to move. A ache grows in his side as if from some long-forgotten wound, but he cannot move to touch the spot.

The familiar rustle of robes moves closer, and the scent of warm bread mingles with the chalky smell in his nose. Sebastian appears at his side, a basket hanging from one elbow. His eyes cut to the side and Cullen looks away, both of them turning to focus on the statue.

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to capture such softness in stone.”

“I learned,” he mumbles. The curl of amusement in Sebastian’s voice is more than he can bear right now, lending weight to Cullen’s certainty that he will be ridiculed before losing his dear friend forever.

The quiet in the room stretches and the pieces of Cullen’s heart grind against each other when he breathes. 

“You learned so that you could do this?” The laughter is gone from his voice. Only soft curiosity remains, the same gentle querying he uses in the Chantry, peeling back petals as if to coax Cullen into blooming.

Sebastian brushes against his arm when he steps forward, tilting his head one way, then the other as he examines the statue. Cullen isn’t sure he sees it when he nods in answer to the question, but he cannot bring himself to speak. Instead, he watches as Sebastian inspects this frozen vision of himself. In contrast to the bust, emotions play freely on the priest’s face, and Cullen notes with equal joy and terror all the things that bring forth smiles, or creased brows, or the way that Sebastian’s hand goes to his own lips as he looks at the carved mouth.

“If I’d stayed in Starkhaven, someone would’ve painted a portrait of me eventually, for posterity if nothing else,” Sebastian muses, his eyes still on the statue. “Some full-of-himself artist who saw a royal commission as a feather in his cap would’ve come into my home and told me how to stand, which way to look, how to hold my head. I remember seeing my brother posing for one, holding a sword with his foot up on a chair for hours on end.” He shakes his head at the memory, and Cullen furrows his brow, unsure where this comparison is heading.

Sebastian steps around to the back of the statue where it stands on a simple wooden pedestal. “The painting would’ve been grand, but flat. I thought they always were. A real portrait shows a person, not just an image, and can show as much about the artist as it does the subject. A painting done by someone who is paid will show whether or not he was pleased with the fee, whether or not he liked the subject, if they got along during their long and boring sessions together.”

He moves again, coming to the side and standing beside Cullen, close enough to touch, and he does, their arms meeting when Sebastian shifts his weight. “This reminds me so much of the sculpture of Andraste that you… admired.” There’s humor in his voice again, but this time it doesn’t hurt Cullen to hear it. “We don’t know if that artist was paid to create her, but you can see in the lines, in the softness and detail. These things were made with love, weren’t they?”

His voice is barely audible in the room, drowned out by the blood rushing in Cullen’s head. He doesn’t know what answer would be better, what would make Sebastian stay and continue to be his friend, but he cannot lie to those eyes that watch him with such infinite patience.

“I cannot speak for the sculptor who carved Andraste, but… yes.” The word escapes on a puff of air and fills the room like dust. “This was made with love. It is a face I could look at every day for eternity and not tire of.”

Color spreads over Sebastian’s cheeks, visible even in the low light. “It is the face of a man who enjoys seeing your face as well. Is this why you’ve been absent from the Chantry?”

Cullen’s nod is shaky and embarrassed, curls falling loose as he lowers his eyes. “You are so patient, but so insightful in your questions. I was afraid that you would see the truth of it, and not want to see me again.”

Sebastian’s hand is warm and real when he reaches up to Cullen’s jaw, lifting his head until their eyes meet. “I was afraid I’d misunderstood the truth I saw in you, that my own desire to know you completely drove you away.”

Cullen shakes his head, sparks moving along his skin where Sebastian’s fingers catch at his stubble. “No, not at all. I am… There are things I do not know how to talk about yet, but you could never drive me away.”

“I mean, you did make another me to spend time with,” Sebastian muses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Do you prefer his company to mine?”

“Not in the least.” His reply is immediate, though he calms when he sees Sebastian’s smile. “But this one can listen to me drone on infinitely without complaint or boredom. It will never tire of me.”

The kiss comes with startling speed, and Cullen would’ve pulled away if Sebastian’s hand wasn’t there to steady him. His lips are softer than all of Cullen’s imaginings, loose and just open enough to send a warm exhale out over his skin. Sebastian watches him from beneath dark lashes, a shadow of uncertainty on his face. He smells of flour and herbs and cinnamon, and the heat and scent of him fills Cullen’s head and lungs, pressing his heart back into one solid piece.

The basket of bread slips to the floor when Cullen winds an arm around Sebastian’s waist to pull him closer, and Sebastian answers by cupping his other hand to his jaw, holding Cullen with such gentle reverence that tears sting in his eyes, to know that someone so precious to him could see him in this face, to deem him worthy of adoration and love. He closes his eyes and gives in to it, kissing Sebastian with all the passion he’s held back, trying to use his lips and breath and hands to show how much he means to him. Time and again he’s dreamt of such a moment, but this is better, filled with those things that fantasy so easily forgets: noses bumping together, the sweet spike of teeth catching his lower lip, the damp chill of forgotten sweat when Sebastian’s fingers curl into the hair at his nape.

They take a stumbling step as they push against each other, and behind them the bust rocks on its pedestal. The moment is broken as Cullen’s hand shoots out to save the sculpture, leaving Sebastian pressed against him, warm exhales in his ear as each of them takes deep breaths to calm their racing hearts.

“Will you sit awhile with me, Cullen? I did bring bread, and I thought perhaps that we could talk somewhere away from the Chantry. I thought…” He pulls back and looks up at Cullen, his grin unusually shy. “It will sound foolish now, but there is more to me than the priest you know, and I thought perhaps we could connect better somewhere apart from my duties.”

Cullen’s cheeks ache from his grin, and he steps toward the center of the room, a hand on Sebastian’s waist to keep him close. “I would like that. I have wine and water at the table there. Please, come join me and we can talk.”

Sebastian gathers up the basket, and Cullen takes the candles from his workspace and moves them to the table in the far corner. As the pair sit down to simple food and conversation, the bust falls into quiet shadow, its knowing smile unmoving, its rich detail forgotten as Cullen settles in to spend the evening with his muse and newfound love. 


End file.
